Mediator
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire/Peter. ...so, here are some other things that brothers do together.


Scribbled hastily in class, but still. What the hell? I'm sorry?

**Title**: Mediator  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire/Peter  
**Summary**: ...so, here are some other things that brothers do together.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x06.  
**Word Count**: 2000  
**Notes**: Not even remotely smutty, yo.

* * *

It was Claire's fault.

She'd said, "It'd be a good way to bond. I guess. If you're into bonding with serial killers." After all, "it worked for me and Elle."

So Peter bought two tickets and ambled into Pinehearst, brooding.

Upon noticing him, Sylar slowly sat up, cocked his head, and smiled. "My birthday's in June, Peter."

Peter's mouth formed a thin, angry line. "Shut up and let's go."

Amused, Sylar inspected the plane tickets, then grabbed his jacket. "Atlantic City. How romantic."

Peter slammed his fist into the wall, narrowing one eye. "Shortest flight I could find."

Pa Petrelli watched his boys shuffle into the elevator with a frown, wondering where the hell his security team had run off to.

When Peter and Sylar returned, one cultivating a massive bruise below his right eye and the other looking especially innocent, Claire crossed her arms with a scowl, then tied up her hair, flipped open her cell phone, and dialed Moviefone.

Ma Petrelli watched her granddaughter hop out of the window, wondering where the hell her wallet had disappeared to.

"I appreciate this," Sylar said amiably, strolling down a dark street, hands in his pockets.

"I'm not doing this for _you_," Claire informed him, jaw clenched.

To his credit, Peter said nothing, merely glaring at passing shadows.

Lips curled most inappropriately, Sylar gave a small shrug, asking, "So, what movie are we seeing?"

Frustrated, Claire glanced at her cell phone. "Considering we're late, we're seeing the special at the concession stand, rated PG-15." She stuck out a hand expectantly.

Peter eyed her warily for a moment, then slapped $15 onto her palm. "No butter."

"We'll see," she said, flouncing off to stand in a line wrapping around the theater.

Several silent minutes later, Sylar leaned against a parked car, pursing his lips. "So, lovely weather we're having."

"Why'd you save me?" Peter burst out, one hand flying to Sylar's chest.

"Why'd you come back for me?" Sylar replied, head tilted curiously.

Peter drew back his hand, begrudgingly leaning against the car, next to Sylar. He crossed his arms with a tiny shrug, explaining, "I have this thing. Family first. It's stupid."

Sylar seemed to be listening. "Yeah, it is."

Teeth bared, Peter turned to glare at him.

"But I think it's genetic," Sylar amended calmly, squinting at the shrinking line ahead. "Is getting popcorn supposed to take this long?"

Peter followed his line of vision. "Not usually."

Wordlessly, they bounded off, Sylar pushing teenagers out of the way, Peter sending apologetic glances to the offended elderly. Quickly, they arrived at the head of the line, where a very obnoxious, very smitten, young boy was handing Claire a giant tub of popcorn.

And his phone number.

"I'll hold onto this," Sylar drawled, fingers snatching the piece of paper, one hand clasping Claire's shoulder. "_Timothy_."

The boy's face turned white, gaze quickly lowering to the cash register.

Annoyed, Claire pried Sylar's fingers off, turning cheerfully to Peter. "Well. Popcorn's free!"

When she made no attempt to return his money, Peter hid a persistent little smile, then guided her to the lobby, glancing back at Sylar, who seemed to be... negotiating with a young group of petrified tweens.

Soon, Sylar sidled up to Claire, flashing three vouchers. "How odd. The tickets were free, too."

"This is..." Peter started, exasperated. "We're officially a cliché."

"Why?" asked Claire, popping a kernel into her mouth. " 'Cause we're Italian and kinda extorting people?"

Peter pointed a finger at Sylar's smug face. "Look, don't make this harder than it has to be."

Sylar raised an innocent eyebrow, pawing at Claire's popcorn. "Peter, you're my little brother." He bit down on a mouthful, adding, "I owe you twenty-seven years of abuse. I'll deduct ten for those few times I tried to kill you, but that still leaves seventeen—"

"Great," interjected Claire, leveling her eyes with his, "because, according to my calculations, you both owe _me_ seventeen years of presents." Her eyebrows rose as though challenging him. "I'll add ten for those few times you ACTUALLY KILLED ME."

Peter looked around, then quickly dragged both into the nearest darkened theater, hissing, "Claire."

"What?" she mumbled, shaking him off. "He killed both of us. Twice."

Peter gave an accommodating little nod. "Technically, I sort of committed suicide that first time..."

Horrified, the little usher watching them opened his mouth. Probably involuntarily.

"Rehearsing for a school play," Sylar explained, bored.

The usher closed his mouth and promptly leapt out into the hallway, leaving his garbage bag behind.

The room was already half-full, dimmed and stuffy, so Sylar casually headed for the back row, ignoring Peter's attempt to tug at his sleeve.

Huffy, Claire followed her uncle, tossed her bucket onto an empty seat as if to claim it, then stalked off down the aisle and out into the corridor.

"Teenagers," offered Sylar in lieu of an apology, smiling at the elderly couple in the row in front.

The couple huddled closer together, dutifully training their eyes on the screen.

"You're not going after her?" he asked, nibbling on a fistful of popcorn and gracefully plopping down.

"I don't have my powers," Peter told him, running a shaky hand through his hair. "It could be dangerous."

Sylar hummed. "She doesn't like me very much."

Though it clearly wasn't a question, Peter replied, "No one likes you very much, Sylar."

"Mother likes me."

Peter sat down one seat apart, leaning back awkwardly. "Yeah," he admitted. "She does."

Sylar's gaze flickered, traveling down the aisle, where Claire was returning, looking equal parts reluctant and sheepish. Her fingers could barely wrap around the big thing of soda she'd scored as she quietly sat between them, sinking into her seat. "Truce?"

Grateful, Peter smiled at her, hand automatically reaching out to pat her head. He stopped himself in time, twisting his wrist and clearing his throat. "Anything for me?"

She smiled brilliantly, dropping a pack of gummy worms in his lap. "I'm totally Niece of the Year, admit it."

Peter merely tried to bite back a secret sort of smile, but Sylar wrinkled his nose. "Those look pretty disgusting."

Claire scoffed, squirming in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. "Says the guy who eats brains." She turned her head slightly to look at him out of the corner of her eye. "Here."

A small pack of raisinets smacked his knees.

"Figured they looked close enough," she shrugged, not looking at him.

Sylar said nothing, but opened the packet with an odd sort of look in his eyes.

The lights dimmed further, the volume went up, and Peter's shoulders stiffened.

"Sylar," he gritted out, unable to move.

Sylar leaned forward a bit to give him an innocent glance. "No talking during previews, Peter."

Oblivious to his struggling, Claire took a sip of her soda, whispering loudly as the preview rolled on, "Oh, wow, I want to watch this. What? _December_? Who wants to wait until December?"

"If you can arrange a meeting with Nakamura," replied Sylar nonchalantly, "I could take care of our little time constraint."

Unamused, Claire turned to look at him, fingers stuck midair. "Forget I said anything."

Sylar shrugged one shoulder, grinning. "Don't have that power yet."

"Speaking of powers," Peter reminded with a growl, "_knock it off, Sylar_."

With a deep, suffering sigh, Sylar waved his fingers.

Peter cracked his back, twisting his neck. "Look, until I get mine back, can we have a ban on using powers? Because, otherwise, I'll probably kill you as soon as they come back."

Not eagerly, Sylar inclined his head. "_If_ they come back."

Claire shushed them.

"They'll come back," Peter mused quietly. "They have to."

Sylar glanced at his hands. "...Nathan had to listen to this for almost three decades?" His hand brushed Claire's. "Maybe I'm here with the wrong brother."

Irritated, Claire knocked his knee. "Stop talking."

Someone in a row below them piped up, "Yeah, please!"

Sylar narrowed his eyes, raising two fingers and aiming—

"_No_," Claire warned, wrapping her fingers around his.

Startled, Sylar frowned, then quickly regained his composure. "Your seat."

Claire blinked. "What about it?"

"The things people have done in it..." he murmured, staring at her. "I can see—oh, I'm sorry. We shouldn't use our powers."

Cheeks dark, Claire tossed his hand away, scooting closer to Peter's side. "Ugh. How long is this movie?"

Grumpy, Peter glanced at his watch. "This isn't going to work, Claire. Let's just go."

Claire seemed to agree, but gave him an encouraging smile nonetheless. "Give it a few more—" She turned to see Sylar drinking her soda. "No!"

Suspiciously innocent, Sylar looked up, lips still on the straw.

Claire pushed him away, switching cup holders. "This isn't a date, okay? This is a family thing. That has nothing to do with dating. Don't drink my stuff!"

Sylar paused. "I was thirsty."

Peter's scowl softened a little.

"Hey, you guys," a teenage boy directly below them hissed, "you're ruining the movie! Don't make me go get a manager, okay?"

Three identical glares shut him up.

"You know," said Claire, eyes narrowed, "it's awfully dark in here."

Sylar remained expressionless. "Yes. It'd be a shame if these good people went blind."

The lights suddenly came on, strong and bright.

The audience groaned loudly, glancing about and complaining.

Claire tilted her head. "And so quiet."

Every single cell phone went off.

Peter rubbed his eyes, sighing. "Well, I'm out." He stood up, then paused, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip. "...can you skip to the end of the movie?"

Sylar's only reply was a wicked smile.

The screen flickered as though a tape was fast-forwarding, and a plot twist played through, overlaid with the closing credits.

The audience erupted in jeers and general disapproval.

Satisfied, Claire stood up, glancing at Sylar. "Oscar-material, totally."

Sylar rose, smirking.

They left the theater in silence, looking oddly serene.

"So... you watched a whole movie together," Claire congratulated when they reached a crossroad. "Sort of."

Peter cocked his head, contemplating. "And you shared a meal." He smiled at her. "Sort of."

She beamed. "And no one died." She scrunched up her face. "Except that guy in the movie."

Smiling softly, Peter quirked an eyebrow.

Sylar watched them for a moment, then started down the street, throwing over his shoulder, "I'll tell Father you said hi."

Peter stretched out his hand. "Wait."

Sylar paused, back still turned.

"Friday?" Claire called out.

"What?" Sylar frowned.

"Next Friday," Peter added, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I know a place. They have waffles."

Sylar didn't turn around.

"Well," he grinned, disappearing into a dark alley, "since they have waffles..."

The subsequent closing of the waffle shop was mostly Claire's fault.


End file.
